


Of Snow and Feathers

by BlueRoanSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, There will be some fluff, This story probably won’t be as dark as it sounds, because my stories always end up dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-26 17:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12562188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRoanSky/pseuds/BlueRoanSky
Summary: Dean never intended to take in a stray—especially one that looked like a kid running away from something.Castiel never intended to let anyone close to him—especially someone who tries to ignore his own problems while attempting to fix everyone else’s.Well, the best laid plans...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am back again with a new story for a different fandom! I apologize if this first chapter reads kind of choppy. I had a difficult time finding a good way to start it, even though I’d had the end written for a few days. 
> 
> Please keep in mind that this story is not yet finished, and while I have a general direction for where I want it to go, I do (unfortunately) have other responsibilities that may get in the way of my writing this. That being said, I will try to update as often as possible. 
> 
> Also, please pay attention to the tags. While a lot of them are past events that won’t be described in great detail, it may still be upsetting to read about for people that are sensitive to those topics. I’ll keep the tags updated if anything new comes up. 
> 
> Note: while Dean refers to Castiel as a boy, Cas is over 18 years old. He just looks younger.
> 
> _(Not beta-read)_

Dean wastes an hour lying in bed waiting for sleep to come before he gives up and decides to go on a walk. He dresses warmly to combat the biting cold of northern Colorado during the winter and doesn’t bother locking his door behind him. He doesn’t have anything worth stealing, anyway. 

Though it’s early in the season, there’s already snow on the ground. It glitters from the lights scattered around his apartment complex, and Dean keeps his eye out for less-visible ice on the sidewalk. He has a closer relationship with his boss, Ellen, than most of her employees, but that doesn’t mean she can afford to pay him if he isn’t working because of an injury. And he can’t afford not getting paid. 

He doesn’t bother hitting the signals when he crosses the roads; not worried about getting run over by a car since there aren’t any driving around. The solitude is one benefit of Dean’s penchant for late-night walking, as it allows him to just walk without paying attention to where he’s going. He ends up at Harvelle’s Roadhouse—a slightly rundown _saloon_ and his current place of employment. It’s closed now, so he keeps walking, and that’s when he first sees the boy. 

He’s sitting on the bus stop bench not far from the Roadhouse with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his hoodie. With only a pair of jeans and tennis shoes to complete his outfit, Dean is surprised the boy hasn’t frozen yet. Or maybe he has, since he stares at the ground like he isn’t even seeing it and doesn’t move as Dean walks by. 

And Dean continues walking because it really isn’t his responsibility—this kid sitting by himself on a bus stop bench at nearly two in the morning. It’s hard enough just taking care of himself, and he really doesn’t need another headache. 

When he reaches the main road that runs north and south through town, he stops briefly at the gas station on the corner and buys some snacks. It’s nothing extravagant—just some chips and a soda in case he gets hungry on his walk home. And if he doesn’t, he can maybe just drop the bag by the bus stop and—

He almost walks out without buying anything—annoyed as he is with himself for even thinking that way—but the cashier is already halfway through ringing up his purchase and Dean doesn’t want to be an ass. So he buys the snacks and takes the bag with a little more force than necessary and decides to head home before the cold messes with his head more. Besides, though he’s dressed weather-appropriately, he’s starting to _feel_ cold and, thankfully, tired. He’s not too far from his apartment and a mildly warm bed. 

Speaking of, he wonders if the boy at the bus stop has a bed to return to. 

The thought crosses his mind before he can stop it and he almost curses out loud. He doesn’t need to be thinking about some random homeless boy that will probably be gone by morning. He needs to be thinking about getting enough sleep so he’s able to function for his shift at work tomorrow. 

Assuming the boy is homeless, of course. There aren’t a lot of homeless people where Dean lives—at least not during the winter when the temperature can reach below zero on a nightly basis. And without more than just a hoodie and jeans... 

The bus stop comes back into view, and with it, the boy. He doesn’t seem to have moved and Dean is half-convinced that he really has frozen to death. But as he gets closer, he sees the boy shiver—and Dean blames his stopping next to the boy on the fact that he looks pathetic. Because Dean doesn’t really _care._ He’s just... curious. 

“So who are you, anyway?” he asks, because he lacks tact and it turns out that he does care even though he shouldn’t. 

The boy doesn’t even look up, though he does pull his hands out of his pocket. “Your guardian angel,” he says without emotion. “What is it to you?” 

Dean purses his lips together, his eyebrows rising. “I thought angels were supposed to be nice and helpful,” he says. “Not, you know, dicks.” 

The boy doesn’t smile or laugh, but he does raise his eyes to look at Dean. “Castiel.” 

“Castiel...” 

Castiel shivers again. “Novak.” 

“Dean Winchester.” He assesses Castiel again. He’s certainly younger than Dean, though by how much, he can’t say. Too thin. In dire need of a shower and a good night’s sleep. Definitely not someone Dean should invite into his crappy, one-bedroom apartment. So, naturally, he asks, “Got a place to stay tonight?” 

Because Dean’s always known when to leave well enough alone and has always done the exact opposite anyway. 

Castiel shrugs, looking down at his hands. 

Dean can still walk away. He hasn’t made any promises. Certainly has no obligation to help this kid. “I have a couch,” he says, “if you prefer sleepin’ on that instead of a bench.” 

Castiel twists his fingers together.

“It comes with a pillow,” Dean adds. 

Castiel narrows his eyes slightly, though he’s still looking down. Another shiver wracks through him.

“And a blanket.”

Castiel’s gaze snaps up to lock with Dean’s. “Why do you want to help me?” 

It’s a good question, Dean thinks. He would answer it, too, if he could. Instead, he just says, “Maybe I figured I’m not the one that needs a guardian angel tonight.” 

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, his expression blank. 

In a last-ditch effort to convince the kid that his couch is better than a bus stop outside in the winter—and really, it should be obvious—Dean shows him the bag from the gas station. “There’s food in it for you, too.” 

A flicker of longing sparks briefly in Castiel’s eyes and Dean knows he’s won.

———

His apartment is only about a five- or ten-minute walk from the bus stop, but in that amount of time, Dean learns two things: one, Castiel is injured in some way, and two, he does _not_ want Dean to know. So Dean ignores the limp Castiel is trying to hide as they make their way silently down the sidewalk and then up the three flights of stairs Dean is slowly growing to despise more and more. 

“Home sweet home,” he says, dropping his keys onto the small table he put by the front door for just this purpose. He grabs a beer from his refrigerator and then turns to watch Castiel, who’s still standing by the open front door as though he intends to bolt. “It’s not much, I know, but it beats sleepin’ outside.” 

Castiel closes the door behind him, his eyes flitting from the old couch to the small TV before resting on the empty beer bottles scattered across the low coffee table. 

Dean’s never much thought about his drinking habits, but he now wonders if he should scale back somewhat. After tonight, of course. “Like I said, it’s not much.” 

Castiel steps further into the apartment, picking up one of the beer bottles and examining it. “You like beer.” He doesn’t say it like a question. 

Dean answers anyway. “Yeah, it, uh- it helps me sleep. It’s hard... sometimes.” 

Castiel nods like he understands and puts the bottle back on the table. He’s looking at one of the featureless walls when he asks, “So what do I owe you?” 

Dean blinks. “Owe me?” 

“For the couch. Sleeping on it.” 

Dean frowns. “You don’t owe me anything. Just bein’ a good Samaritan, that’s all.” 

Castiel faces him. He’s mostly stopped shivering by now. “You’re offering a place to sleep and food to eat, and you don’t want anything for it?” 

“It’s not exactly the Ritz,” Dean says, attempting a joking smile. When Castiel doesn’t laugh, Dean clears his throat and takes a drink of his beer. “I’m serious, though. I don’t want anything. Just wanted to help out.” 

Castiel stares at him, and though his expression is, as ever, blank, Dean gets the sense that he’s still skeptical. 

“Look, I’m tired,” Dean says after the silence drags out to awkward levels. “Dealt with a lot of idiots at work today and then couldn’t sleep, which is why I was out walking. Now, though, I really just want to pass out and get today over with, so if you wanna stay, the couch is open. I’ll leave a pillow and blanket outside my bedroom door if you want those, too, and this food—” He picks up the bag of snacks. “You can eat all of it. Doesn’t matter to me. So, uh, see you in the morning, if you’re still here, I guess.” Without waiting for Castiel to respond—because he probably won’t, Chatty Cathy he is not—Dean retreats to his bedroom. 

He does as he said and drops a pillow and blanket on the floor outside his room and then shuts his door, resisting the urge to lock it. Castiel isn’t talkative and he _is_ full of secrets, but Dean doesn’t think he needs to worry about getting murdered. Probably not, anyway. 

And if he does die tonight, at least he won’t have to work tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I wanted to finish and post this chapter sooner, but life got in the way. Hope you enjoy!

For a while, Castiel doesn’t move. He listens to the quiet sounds of Dean getting ready for bed—the sink running, a toilet flushing—and waits for him to come back out and say he’s changed his mind, he can’t allow a total stranger to stay with him overnight, at least not without some compensation… 

Listens to the sound of Dean getting into bed. Waits for him to come back out. 

But he doesn’t. 

For a while, Castiel still doesn’t move. He feels paralyzed by the unfamiliarity of the situation he’s found himself in. It’s not like he didn’t have expectations about what would happen if he followed Dean home. It’s not the first time Castiel has spent the night in a stranger’s apartment, after all. It’s just… Well, he didn’t expect _this_. Left alone—and free to leave, even. 

Strange. 

He glances around again at the empty beer bottles, dirty dishes, and scattered clothing on the floor and furniture. Shivers. 

Well, it’s not like he was planning on sleeping tonight anyway.

———

Morning dawns just as cold as the night before and Castiel is still awake. Incidentally, Dean’s apartment is also much cleaner—with the exception of the two trash bags by the trash can. Still, Castiel feels less jittery now, though he aches more than he did before. He almost welcomes the dull pain, if only for its familiarity. 

Speaking of: 

He should leave. It’s the perfect time because Dean still hasn’t left his room—is still asleep for all Castiel knows—and if he leaves now, it won’t matter if Dean decides he wants something from Castiel after all. He’ll be gone; the only trace he was ever there being the clean apartment he’ll leave behind. The pillow atop the folded blanket that's now resting on the couch instead of the floor. 

Could be gone. _Should_ be gone. 

But he doesn’t move from his chosen spot on the couch, even though he’s not comfortable, sat on the edge as he is. It looks like a comfy couch; cushions just waiting to embrace him. He thinks he might feel better if he lets himself sink into them. But he can’t. Rather, he won’t. It’s safer to stay on the edge. Safer to be alert. 

He should leave. 

But Dean’s apartment is warm. It isn’t decorated, and now that it’s clean, it almost looks as though no one lives in it. But it’s warmer than the streets outside. Warmer than any bus stop bench. It’s not the only warm place Castiel knows of, but— 

He really should leave. 

His eyes are drawn to the TV on a stand against the wall in front of him. He stares at it, contemplating the idea of being able to sink into this couch with the TV on and just _relax_. He can’t remember the last time he relaxed. Maybe he’s never been able to. He’s certainly not relaxed now, but at least he’s warm. He aches, but not from cold. He’s on alert, but not from the dangers outside. 

Still, he _really_ should— 

Dean’s bedroom door opens and Castiel stays still. If it was a mistake to stay, he’ll know soon enough. Dean appears, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice Castiel. Just walks into the kitchen and grabs cereal from the pantry, pouring it into a bowl he grabs from the cupboard. It’s when he turns toward the fridge, bowl in hand, that he sees Castiel. 

“Oh, _shit_.” Dean jumps, cereal flying out of his bowl and clattering onto the tile. 

Castiel shoots to his feet, then freezes. The door isn’t far away. He should’ve left. His eyes flit to the bowl still in Dean’s hand. It looks like porcelain. 

_He should’ve left._

“Sorry,” Dean says, sounding slightly out-of-breath. A range of emotions flash across his face too quick for Castiel to read. “I, uh- forgot you’d be here.” 

“I should’ve left,” Castiel says, because it’s the only thought crashing through his mind. Then he cringes inwardly—mostly inwardly—because he knows better than to point out his own mistakes. 

Dean’s face goes blank. “What? No, that’s not- It’s probably still freezing outside. I don’t even—” He glances at the clock. “It’s not even eight in the morning. Why am I awake already? But no, you don’t- You can stay ‘til it’s warmer, at least.” 

Castiel forces his posture to relax. He doesn’t respond because he doesn’t know what to say, so he looks at the spilled cereal instead. It’d be easy to clean. There’s not even any milk involved. 

“Woah, wait. Did you- How- Did you _clean my apartment?”_

A dozen thoughts race through Castiel’s head, but none more prominent than _You’re an idiot_. He was overwhelmed last night and wasn’t thinking straight; otherwise, he never would’ve cleaned up. Of course Dean would notice and be angry. Castiel should’ve thought of that. He keeps his expression passive and stays focused on the cereal. How many fell when Dean jumped? 

“Castiel? I’m assuming it was you, unless some cleaning fairies came in during the night.” 

Castiel stays silent, counting the fallen cereal to distract from his pounding heart. He watches for movement out of his peripheral vision and doesn’t flinch when Dean moves his hand. Points for him. 

“Hey, I’m not mad. I’m just… Did you think you had to?” 

Castiel chances a look upward. Dean doesn’t _look_ angry. No clenched fists, flared nostrils, or narrowed eyes. He does look confused, though, and Castiel feels compelled to explain. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Dean’s eyebrows raise slightly—almost as if concerned. Or surprised. Probably surprised. “So you decided to clean?” 

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. He’s unaccustomed to explaining himself. No one ever asks. “The mess was… stressful.” 

Dean stares at him and Castiel drops his eyes. He’s breathing too quickly, but he takes shallow breaths so it’s not noticeable. 

It feels like a century before Dean finally says, “Well, uh, thanks. You didn’t have to, but uh- I appreciate it. I think.” 

Castiel doesn’t relax, but he nods so Dean knows he heard him. He’s still staring at the floor when he says, “I couldn’t take the trash out. I didn’t know where the dumpster was.” 

Dean says, “Hey, that’s cool. You still- You did a lot still, so- It’s cool.” 

Then there’s silence. A heavy, awkward silence. 

Castiel listens to Dean pull out a broom to sweep up the cereal. Counts the threads in the carpet while Dean pours milk into what remains of the cereal in his bowl. Ignores his own hunger pains because he never did eat the snacks Dean had offered and now it’s too late. 

Repeat: _You’re an idiot._

“Have you eaten at all?” Dean asks, shattering the quiet. 

Castiel fidgets with the hem of his hoodie. Did his stomach make a noise? “No.” 

Dean opens the pantry. “You want some cereal? Or there are the chips from last night. Guess I know how they ended up in the pantry… Though you may not want them, since you didn’t eat them.” He stops abruptly, looking at Castiel for a response. 

Castiel bites his lip to keep himself from asking what Dean will want for this second offer of food. It doesn’t really matter, at this point. He can feel the lightheadedness creeping up on him, spurred on by the increasing ache from his bruises. He should’ve just eaten last night. “Cereal… works.” 

Dean pours another bowl and Castiel takes it without backing away. Turns out: it _is_ made of porcelain. Dean sits down on the side of the couch farthest from him, to which Castiel exhales in quiet relief. He can’t tell if Dean feels the tension in the air or if it’s just his own imagination. 

Silence but for the sound of eating. 

Then: “Did you _vacuum?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, Dean doesn’t _have_ a vacuum. So out of all the things he’s attempting to force his sleep-deprived brain to accept—namely, Castiel being in his apartment (Dean had forgotten) and Castiel having cleaned his apartment (Dean should’ve done it)—it’s the idea that Castiel somehow managed to vacuum _without a vacuum_ that Dean can’t quite accept. It just doesn’t make any sense. 

“I didn’t vacuum,” Castiel says, still quiet, still standing, still refusing to make eye contact. Not eating. 

Dean focuses on the current curiosity and leaves the others for after. “The carpet looks like it’s been cleaned, though.” 

Castiel fiddles with the spoon in the bowl. “I picked up.” 

Dean stares at him (absently, he notes he’s been staring a lot lately). His own cereal is forgotten in his hand. “You’re tellin’ me that you picked up the lint and everything _by hand?”_

Castiel’s shoulders tighten, ever-so-slightly. “You don’t have a vacuum,” he says, as if Dean doesn’t know. 

And Dean decides right then to just drop the subject because it’s far too early to have this conversation. He remembers his cereal—it’s soggy—and takes a bite of it to give himself time to formulate his next words. It doesn’t take an observant person to notice that Castiel is jumpy (putting it lightly), and Dean doesn’t want to make him more nervous. “You can sit down, if you want, by the way,” he says, changing the subject as casually as he can. 

Castiel doesn’t look at him, but he does sit slowly on the very edge of the couch. Dean doesn’t comment on it, and after a moment, Castiel takes a small bite of his own cereal. 

Progress. 

“So, what’re you planning on doin’ now?” Dean asks. When Castiel stiffens, Dean adds quickly, “I’m not tryin’ to kick you out. I just wanted to know if you had some kind of plan. Were you waiting on the bus last night? Do you have somewhere to go?” 

Castiel stares down into his bowl, and Dean thinks for a moment that he isn’t going to answer. But before the silence can drag too long, he says, “I wasn’t really planning on going... anywhere. Specifically. I just... needed to go somewhere.” 

Dean attempts to not sound judgmental when he asks, “Are you running away from home? Trouble with your parents?” 

And Castiel actually smiles. 

Well, really, it’s just a slight upward quirk of the corner of his mouth, and it only lasts a moment, but Dean takes it as a sign that Castiel feels something other than _meh_ all the time. 

“My parents are dead,” Castiel says, matter-of-factly. “They passed away when I was very young.” 

“What happened after that?” Dean asks, because he knows from experience that phrases like _I’m sorry_ and _That’s so sad_ don’t mean anything. 

And he’s curious. 

Castiel shrugs, then winces, but moves on before Dean can ask about it. “Foster care. But I am nineteen now, so I am on my own, as it is.” 

Dean blinks. “You’re nineteen?” 

Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Did you think I was younger?” 

“I would’ve guessed sixteen,” Dean says. “Not that it’s a problem, or anything. You just- You look... younger.” 

“So I have been told,” Castiel says, looking away again. 

It’s the tone of his voice that makes Dean think there’s more to Castiel’s statement than he let on, but Dean doesn’t ask about it. He’s surprised Castiel has spoken this much, and there are more pressing questions to ask. “So where were you staying? Before last night, I mean.” 

“With—” Castiel stops, and Dean only realizes there was life in his eyes because it fades now. “With an old friend,” he finishes, as though the words are forced out of him. 

Dean wants to know more, but he adds this to the list of Things He Isn’t Going to Ask About because it really isn’t his business. Besides, he doubts Castiel is going to stay, and he isn’t sure that he _wants_ Castiel to stay. It’s not like Dean signed up for this responsibility, even if Castiel is older than Dean thought. He already has someone he needs to take care of, despite the— 

He cuts the thought off before it can finish and realizes he’s just been staring at the carpet without responding. He blinks a few times to refocus on the here and now and _he’s in his apartment_ , and then stands to stretch. “Well, you can crash here for a little longer,” he says, without looking at Castiel. “‘Til you figure out your next move, and all.” 

“No, that’s—” 

“It’s not a problem, Cas.” The nickname slips out unexpectedly, but Dean decides that he likes it. _Castiel_ sounds too formal—like he’s on a separate plane, too distant for anyone to reach. “I live alone anyway,” he continues, as if he didn’t just slightly alter the relationship between them, “so no one else comes by.” 

“No family?” Cas asks, still on the couch despite Dean having moved to the kitchen. 

Dean stills, very slightly—just a blip in the regular programming. Then he’s washing his bowl out, covering his silence with the sound of the running water. By the time he’s done, he’s managed to plaster a smile on his face. “I have ‘em. But my brother is younger, so he still lives with our dad.” 

Cas is looking down, watching his fingers tap quietly against his bowl of unfinished cereal. He’s quiet and hesitant when he asks, “They do not visit you?” 

“Nah, but I visit them sometimes.” And Dean decides he’s done talking about himself. “I have to get ready for work, but uh- if you want to stay, you can. I have a long shift today, though, so I’ll be gone for a while.” 

“Dean.” 

He stops on his way into his bedroom, glancing at Cas. He’s standing now, an indecipherable expression on his face. Dean waits as Cas fidgets—the confidence that was in his voice when he said Dean’s name apparently having left him. 

“Thanks,” Cas says finally, but not like it’s what he meant to say. 

Dean wavers for a moment—a sign of his weakness—before nodding. Then he disappears into his room before Cas can muster the courage to say what he originally wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this shorter chapter. I figured it’d be better to post something before this coming week because I’m not sure how busy I’ll be, and this chapter just came to a natural end around this point. I’ll try and make the next one longer. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is only in his bedroom for a few minutes before he leaves for work—hurrying out the front door with a parting, “Take a shower or a bath if you want, or just watch TV or hang out, doesn’t matter, see ya later.” 

Cas—because he can confess to himself, at least, that he likes the nickname—doesn’t even have time to say anything in response before he’s once again standing alone in Dean’s apartment. The only difference this time is that he doesn’t feel as nervous. It’s almost... comfortable. 

And that has less to do with Dean being gone than Cas cares to admit. 

The offer of a shower is too tempting to turn down, despite how awkward it feels to shower in the home of a stranger—or recent acquaintance—so Cas washes out his cereal bowl in the kitchen sink and leaves it in the dishwasher before investigating the bathroom. It’s not very large: a single sink with a mirror, a toilet, and a bathtub/shower-head combo. But, it’s functional. Besides, Cas can’t really complain. He’s just glad the bathroom entrance is outside the bedroom.

He turns the water on and undresses while it warms up, moving slowly to avoid aggravating his sore muscles. He glances in the mirror at the bruises littering his chest and abdomen. Yellowing as they heal too slowly. He looks away before he gets lost in the memories attached to them and focuses on just being grateful that they are healing. And that they’re just bruises. 

The bathroom is foggy from steam now, so he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and moves the shower curtains aside so he can step into the tub. The cascading water is warm and soothing, and he relishes in the feel of a hot shower for a few moments before he starts washing. He doesn’t think Dean will be able to tell if he takes a longer shower than necessary, but he doesn’t want to use too much water anyway. He might be able to take a bath if he showers fast enough.

He spends a while in the bathroom, washing himself thoroughly with the shower-head before filling the bathtub and soaking himself in the hot water until it starts to cool. He’s reluctant to leave the bathtub—and even more reluctant to wear his dirty clothes again—but he can’t spend all day in the bathroom, so he gets out and ignores the uncomfortable feeling of unwashed clothes against his newly-cleaned skin. At least he doesn’t ache as much anymore. 

Back out in the front room, he stands for a moment and contemplates what to do now. Dean made it fairly clear that he can stay and hang out, but what does that mean, exactly? Can he really watch TV? Can he _relax?_

He finds the remote shoved between the couch cushions after some time spent looking for it and turns the TV on. Dean doesn’t have anything fancy—just some cable channels—but Cas settles on a cooking show and stands watching it for a couple minutes before he looks over at the couch. It really does look comfortable. 

He sits down slowly, inching his way back until he’s sunk into the cushions. It’s an old couch, but it feels like a cloud compared to the benches Cas was sleeping on up until now. He rests his head against the back of it, releasing his pent-up breath and imagining his anxiety and stress exiting with it. 

He doesn’t notice falling asleep. 

——— 

An incessant buzzing pulls Cas out of sleep and back into the waking world. He doesn’t open his eyes at first; hoping whatever loud bug is making the noise will go away and let him slip back into his slumber. And for a moment, the bug quiets down. But just as Cas’ awareness is fading away, the buzzing starts again, and Cas’ eyes fly open when it finally clicks in his brain what he’s hearing—and feeling. Not a bug, then. A vibration. The phone in his pocket. 

He stumbles to his feet, fumbling for the phone and finally pulling it out. His face pales at the name on the caller ID. The one that’s replaced with _two missed calls._ The one that pops up as the phone starts vibrating again in Cas’ hand. He considers not answering it. 

Considers the consequences. 

_“Castiel.”_ Crowley’s accented voice almost purrs through the phone. _“You certainly made me wait long enough for an answer.”_

Cas shivers and wonders when the temperature in the room dropped. “I- It- That was not my intention.” 

_“Of course it wasn’t,”_ Crowley says, all honey and acid. _“Nevertheless, you know how precious my time is, and how cross I get when people waste it. Do you want me to be cross with you?”_

“No, no, I—” Cas stutters, breathless. He can’t find enough _air._ “It won’t. Happen again.” 

_“See that it doesn’t,”_ Crowley says, a note of danger in his tone. _“There’s this other thing that’s been bothering me, though. See, I thought you’d be back by now, but you aren’t. So I asked myself, ‘Self, what should I do?’ And I decided to call you because surely you just got yourself lost. Surely you wouldn’t run from me.”_

Cas’ vision wavers slightly. “No, I- I meant to- I did not mean to be gone. So long.” 

_“I understand you have your moments,”_ Crowley continues, as though he didn’t hear. _“You have to be independent, sometimes. It’s one of your many flaws that I’ve grown to accept. But you’ve always come back before. So why, I wonder, would this time be any different?”_

Cas’ heartbeat is thundering in his ears. His voice sounds far away when he hears himself say, haltingly, “Maybe I. Maybe I don’t- don’t want to. Come back this. Time.” 

And then there’s silence on the other end of the line. Cas doesn’t breathe as he waits. At this rate, he’ll pass out before Crowley responds. 

Then, as Cas is watching the spots dance in his vision: _“If that’s the case, why did you keep the phone, Castiel?”_

And everything slams back into focus with enough force that Cas— _Castiel_ —almost staggers. Crowley is right. Crowley is always right. Castiel kept the phone because he knows he can’t get by without it. Without the connection. 

Without Crowley. 

“I—” Castiel breaks off. Swallows hard. “I didn’t. Think about that.” 

_“That’s why I’m here, love,”_ Crowley says, and his voice is gentle now. _“You need someone to think for you—someone to_ care _for you. You don’t know how to be on your own. You know that.”_

Castiel’s voice is just a whisper when he says, “Yes. I know.” 

_“Are you coming back, then, Castiel?”_

He chokes on his response. “Yes.” 

_“That’s a good boy. I’ll be expecting you.”_

The line goes dead and Castiel feels all the terrible, horrible, _awful_ things that had been quiet start clawing at the inside of his mind again. Trying to break out. Trying to infest everything good and worth keeping. 

He looks around Dean’s apartment and sees it differently. Sees it as a sanctuary. A sanctuary that he doesn’t deserve. One that he will corrupt with the festering rot that’s inside him. 

He can’t stay. 

He feels like someone else when he finds a paper towel and a marker to write with. Watches someone else’s hand write a note he hopes is coherent. Lets someone else’s body carry him from the apartment and out into the bitter cold. 

He wants to lie in it. 

He wants to die in it. 

He does neither. He just walks, paying no attention to where he’s going or who he’s passing. He thinks a few people try to grab him, ask if he’s okay, does he need help, can they call anyone? He passes through them like a ghost and they don’t persist because they don’t really care. 

Dean would persist. Dean would care. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t, and Castiel is thinking in fairy tales. He needs to forget Dean. There’s no place for him in the world Castiel exists in. No place for green eyes that see more than they let on or a smile that’s pained and fake, but _real_ , all at the same time. No place for awkward generosity or hesitant caring. 

It’s not a place where Dean belongs. Not a place where Castiel belongs.

But when he finally stops walking and looks up, he’s back at that place anyway. Back at the old house he’s already run from before. He stares at it and feels nothing. 

He walks inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of the mystery begins to unfold... 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
